


wish fulfillment

by redbrunja



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 00:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16439339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: Their mission to London in 1815 is giving Lucy a worrying case of deja vu.





	wish fulfillment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sharkflip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkflip/gifts).



> This story contains ~~no~~ only the tiniest traces of actual history.

During undergrad, one of her 300-level classes assigned Lucy to write a personal history of a person, place, or thing. Exemplary examples from past classes involved Subarus, cheetos, and Wikipedia.

Lucy knew immediately that she should write about the most famous author in the English language: Jane Austen. She could write about discovering _Pride & Prejudice_ on her own, falling in love, and then seeking out the rest of Austen's novels, the earlier ones written in Steventon and then her later novels, written while she was staying with the Countess of Winchilsea, and published under a male _nom de plum._ When Lucy was 17, she had secretly written a "loving homage" in Austen's style about a 18th century, genteelly impoverished woman who longs to forswear marriage and pursue her studies, only to (after a few initial misunderstandings) fall in love with a tall, handsome, noblemen who adored her for her quick wit and dark eyes, and proceeds to marry her and fund her studies. Carol discovered the .doc file, deleted it, and (correctly) informed Lucy that it was derivative and a waste of her time and talents. Several years later, Amy rented Austenland, and despite Lucy's humiliated refusals, insisted they watch it. After half a box of red wine, Lucy was laughing so hard her sides had ached the next day.

Lucy wrote about the history department at Stanford and got a B+.

If Lucy wasn't _completely_ positive that she would take the details of her childish Austen-inspired story to the grave, she would think that her future self had informed Flynn, because he was playing the role of romantic hero she'd written to perfection.

A "chance" encounter in Hyde Park had resulted in the Countess of Winchilsea inviting Lucy to take tea with her, which had lead to an invitation to stay with her, and now she at a _Regency-era_ _ball_ talking with _Jane Austen_ about her writing.

Around her, the room swirled; music winding between conversations, servants bearing drinks and h'ors d'oeuvre as they wove through the glittering throng.

"Our conversation last night regarding the fossils that lie within our English cliffs sparked an idea for my next novel," Jane Austen said. "I am considering a journey to the shore for research purposes."

"Mm, that sounds stimulating," Lucy responded, practically swooning over the idea that she could have prompted a new _Jane Austen_ novel. "May I suggest writing to Mary Anning, of Lyme Regis? She is a woman of great skill at fossil discovery."

"What a splendid idea," Jane said, touching Lucy's wrist gently.

"If you are looking for scientific information for your _romance stories,"_ a loutish voice broke in, "I would be happy to furnish an introduction to one of the gentleman at the Royal Geological Society."

Jane and Lucy turned as one, wearing identical expressions of annoyance. The instant Lucy felt her features shift into a moue, she smoothed them out, projecting mild pleasure.

Mr. Henrick de Wortley, with his 9 thousand a year, had been circling around Lucy like a vulture the entire time she'd been in 1815.

They hadn't been able to figure out it he was a Rittenhouse mole or had an unusual craving for Americans of little known family.

"Thank you, but I don't think your assistance will be needed," Jane said crisply.

"In that case, might I prevail upon Miss Preston for a dance?" he asked, gazing through his eyelashes at Lucy.

"Of course," she agreed, wearing an expression of faint amusement. Her time with her mother in Rittenhouse's stronghold, and then in 1919, had done wonders for her poker face.

De Worthley took her hand, but instead of leading her to the dance floor, he guided her towards one of the exits.

Lucy met Flynn's eyes across the crowded room for one brief instant.

Then she let herself be led docilely down the hallway, certain that Flynn would be at her heels.

De Worthley pulled her into the library. "Forgive the impropriety," he began, "but I must speak with you in privacy."

"Oh?" Lucy responded, gripping her closed fan in her fist, trying to judge if jabbing it in his throat or at his eyes would be most efficacious.

He brushed a curl back from her face.

"Despite your opinionated nature, I find myself utterly enchanted by you. Will you give me your hand in marriage?"

Lucy was almost entirely certain that he was a native of the 19th century but she still asked, "would my blood relation with Rittenhouse be of any concern to you?"

"Rittenhouse?" De Worthley looked confused. "Is that some notable American family?"

"Not really," Lucy said. "Mr De Worthley, I must decline your offer. I am sure that with your 9 thousand a year, you will find an amenable bride in short order. I bid you adieu." She waved her fan at him, enjoying this situation a touch, now that she was certain it had nothing to with her mission, and turned away.

"Miss Preston, I must insist," De Worthley snapped. He grabbed her arm and yanked her back against him.

The library door slammed open.

In two strides - the blink of an eye - Flynn was across the room. He punched De Worthley in the face. The man went down like he was made of matchsticks, losing his grip on Lucy.

Lucy stumbled a bit, and ended up tucked against Flynn's side.

De Worthley shrieked wordlessly and then managed, "How dare you!"

Flynn kicked him in the ribs and snarled at him.

De Worthley glared at them both, blood streaming down his face, and then he bolted out of the library.

Flynn spat something after him in Croatian and then turned to Lucy. "Are you hurt?"

"Of course not," Lucy said, confused. "He wasn't Rittenhouse."

Flynn turned towards her and brushed his fingers along her arm. Lucy shivered.

"He laid his hands on you," he said, voice dark. He tilted his head down and Lucy swayed closer.

Lucy looked up, up, into his dark eyes, dizzy.

Flynn touched the line of her jaw, soft and electric, and Lucy wanted him to kiss her so, so much.

She jerked away. "Stop it," she said, harshly. Flynn froze.

Lucy stumbled a few steps away. "Stop playing - stop pretending -" she bit the words back, bit her bottom lip to keep the words in. _Stop pretending you love me._

Just like in with Wyatt in Hollywood, she'd fallen into another romantic storyline and couldn't see the truth of the situation. She maybe needed to reconsider her stance on the danger of romance novels. (She couldn't handle her personal history repeating.)

"Playing?" Flynn shook his head, confused.

Lucy took a deep breath, settled herself.

"It doesn't matter," she started.

Flynn scoffed. "I think it does."

She continued right over him. "De Worthley wasn't with Rittenhouse, so we need to find out who is."

"It was the butler," Flynn said dryly. "He's dead at the bottom of the servant's stairs. Everyone will think he fell."

Lucy opened and closed her mouth a few times. "Oh," she said. Their mission was done, then. No reason to stay, and converse with Jane Austen, and sleep in a generously-sized bed that was always warm when she slipped into it.

She yanked up the hem of her dress. Jiya had manufactured a communicator that allow them to remain in the past and contact the future when they were ready for a ride home. It was a little bulkier than a cell phone, but wasn't heavy. Clipping it to a garter had worked well so far, and even when the men's clothing of the era come with pockets, Flynn refused to carry it.

She ignored the heat in Flynn's eyes as she removed it from the ribbon just above her knee and activated it.

"We should slip out around 6 in the morning," she said. "No one will be awake that early."

That was a handful of hours away. The only reason _no_ t to settle in by the fire and kiss each other breathless was it would only be asking for heartbreak on Lucy's part, once they returned to the present.

Lucy hid the communicator away again, straightened her skirt, and headed for the door.

"Do you think I'm playing a game, Lucy?" Flynn asked stepping right into her path.

Lucy lifted her chin, glared at him, and snapped, "If you want to kiss me, kiss me in 2018 when it actually matters!"

When he froze, she darted around him and out of the room.

 

* * *

 

Agent Christopher had relocated them to a different bunker after Jessica had compromised the last one.

It was very similar to their last base, the layout only slightly different, and Lucy still got turned around, expecting hallways to lead to slightly different places. It had more bathrooms and even more importantly, more bedrooms.

Everyone had their own private room, which Lucy greatly appreciated. She'd retreated to hers with a bottle of vodka, a tin mug full of ice, and a battered copy of Jane Austen's _The Cliffs of Dorset_ **.**

She let herself slip into Austen's prose, willing herself to think of nothing but travails of fictional characters.

The vodka helped immensely with that.

She was in the middle of the novel when there was a knock on her door.

She could from the sound that it was Flynn. He'd acted like Lucy's embarrassing outburst hadn't happened when they left London. Maybe if she ignored him now, they could both forget about it?

But had anyone in history ever successfully ignored Garcia Flynn?

Lucy set her book aside, opened the door.

Flynn stepped inside. He had a slight quirk to his mouth, something bright in his eyes. Lucy tried to ignore that he looked devastatingly handsome.

"Yes?" she asked.

Flynn leaned down, moving slowly, deliberately, giving her plenty of time to back away, or tell him to stop.

"It's 2018," he told her, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke, and then he kissed her. Gentle. Soft. A good first kiss.

Flynn started to straighten. Lucy made a disappointed sound, her hands clinging to his sweater and pulling him back to her.

She opened her mouth against his, kissed him deeper. Flynn turned them, and then sat on the edge of her bed, pulling her into his lap. Lucy rolled her hips against his, his erection pressing against her. She shivered, hot.

"Lucy," Flynn said, staring at her with the intense look, he'd given her in a dozen different times, like he could see into corners and crannies of her soul that she didn't even know where there.

" _Lucy_ ," he repeated. His broad hands clutched at her hips hard enough to bruise. "I've never played games with you."

Lucy nodded, throat tight.

"Did the journal tell you this would happen?" she asked.

Flynn shook his head. "No. I've already told you - we're beyond anything in the journal."

Lucy licked her lips. "So it didn't mention anything about - about me and Jane Austen?"

He looked very puzzled. "No," he started, and then seemed to realize something. "When we were in London, did you and Jane..." he searched for the appropriate verb.

"Oh! No, we didn't, although there's speculation that she and the Countess of Winchilsea had an affair, but after meeting her, I think that she and the Countess's ward-" Lucy babbled along.

Flynn settled her more firmly against his lap, apparently content to listen to her talk about other people's relationships.

She trailed off.

"What is it that I don't know about you and Miss Austen?" Flynn asked.

"I am never, _ever_ going to tell you," Lucy assured him.

 

* * *

 

 

"You promise you won't laugh?" Lucy asked.

"You have my word," Flynn said, dropping his voice low.

Lucy took a fortifying swallow of her vodka cranberry.

She couldn't do this while looking at him. She stared at the coffee table, strewn with the materials that she was prepping for her 2021 spring semester middle British history class.

"When I was seventeen, I wrote a knock off Jane Austen novel about an academic who falls in love," she said in a rush. She peeked at Flynn. He was looking at her, clearly waiting for the penny to drop.

"It's embarrassing!" she explained.

"I am sure it was wonderful," Flynn offered.

"It wasn't," Lucy laughed, and leaned against him. "My mom found it and... didn't approve."

Flynn took her hand in his, refrained from saying anything about Carol. They'd had extensive conversations about Lucy's mother, and it had been too pleasant an evening to bring her into it.

" _That_ is your Jane Austen secret?" he asked.

Lucy nodded, and took another drink. "You were acting just like the hero I wrote, the entire time we were in London. Talking to anyone who would listen about how smart you thought I was. Glaring at De Worthley."

"I admit, it was nice to be your dashing hero instead of the villain," Flynn mused.

"I never said he was dashing," Lucy protested and shoved him.

"You drove me crazy in London," Flynn told her, lifting her into his lap, kissing along the line of her jaw. "You were so happy, talking about literature with Miss Austen. You were incandescent and everyone could see it."

Flynn nipped at her neck, his hands sliding under her sweater.

"I wanted all your attention," he told her.

Lucy arched into his touch and then helped him pull her sweater off. She was mostly done with her lesson planning.

"You have it," she told him.


End file.
